The Reporter (33 page)

“Were you able to identify the woman in Maxi Poole’s sketches?” he asked.

“Sure,” Gabby told him. “She’s a radio personality called Zahna Cole.”

Richard and Pete both pounced on the assignment desk at once. “You check Information for L.A., the Westside, and the Valley,”
Pete thundered. “I’ll take the cross-reference directories, see what they have on radio personnel.”

When they had no luck, Pete dialed one of his tipsters at Los Angeles traffic court. The clerk paused to consult his computer.
Yes, a Zahna Cole had been issued an eighty-five-dollar parking ticket in downtown Los Angeles—the address listed on the citation
was 6420 Sumac Drive in Sherman Oaks. Slamming down the phone, Pete scrawled it on his legal pad. “But who the hell knows
if she still lives there?” he growled to Richard. “She got the damn ticket six years ago.”

An EA approached the assignment desk and handed Richard
a sheaf of papers—Maxi’s crisscross list of names and addresses corresponding to the phone numbers Janet Orson had called
from the Beverly Hills Hotel. Glancing quickly through the pages, the name jumped out at him: Zahna Cole. Orson had called
her twice yesterday, probably to confirm the interview set for today, he figured, holding up the sheet for Pete to see—the
address listed for Zahna Cole was 6420 Sumac Drive in Sherman Oaks!

Pete grabbed a Thomas Guide. “Bring Cabello’s cell phone number,” he barked. “We’ll take one of the news vans. Let’s go!”

D
ebra Angelo sat on the comfortable, canvas-covered couch with her arm around Gia, who looked scared and small among the big
down cushions. Bessie perched stiffly on a straight-backed chair, facing her adopted family. Marvin Samuels was settled into
an overstuffed club chair on the other side of a wide coffee table, on which rested a gin and tonic he was working on. And
Dr. Bob Jamieson was pacing. Debra had summoned the lawyer and the therapist, and assembled the group in her living room to
go over the horror story, and to try to figure out what they should do for her daughter on every level.

“I think,” Debra said soberly, “we should begin by having Bessie tell the story that she told me an hour ago.” The nanny had
a fresh cotton handkerchief at the ready. All eyes turned to her, including Gia’s, who looked relieved that she wasn’t being
asked to speak.

“I lied to the detectives,” Bessie began, and Gia looked startled at her admission. “I told them Gia did not leave the kitchen
the whole time Mr. Nathanson was here the afternoon he was… was shot, and that isn’t true.” Marvin Samuels shifted in his
chair and watched her intently.

The woman went on to tell what really happened, how Gia
followed her father into her bedroom, how Bessie had heard a shot but wasn’t sure what it was, then heard another. And how
Gia had come running back into the kitchen then, crying and gasping and saying her daddy got shot with her mom’s gun.

“Tell them what you told Gia,” Debra said sternly, and Bessie began to weep.

“I did wrong,” the housekeeper whimpered forlornly. “I told her not to tell anybody, not to ever talk about it again, and
that I would say she’d stayed right there in the kitchen with me the whole time, and I asked her if she understood.”

“Evidently she did,” Debra said dryly, directing her words at Marvin. “Gia never said another word about it.”

The attorney was the only one in the group who looked comfortable, Debra noted, and that was reassuring to her. Of course,
she knew in her heart that it didn’t necessarily mean anything. She was sure Marvin Samuels would be comfortable in a burning
building. He would probably sit and have a drink, and maybe some crackers and pâté, while he considered which route would
provide the most efficient egress.

“What should we do, Marvin?” she asked. He had come out to the beach as soon as he got her frantic call telling him that the
person who killed Jack was actually Gia. By accident, of course. She explained how the girl had found her gun and wanted to
show it to her father.

“Are you
sure
it was an accident?” he’d asked her.

“For God’s sake, Marvin!” she’d exclaimed. “Could that even be an
issue
with a ten-year-old?”

“In today’s world, yes,” he’d said. It had been Marvin’s idea to get the psychologist over there, too. Meanwhile, he’d told
her on the phone, she should hold all thoughts and comments until they got there, and they’d go through it together.

“Can we freshen your drink?” Debra asked him now, taking his cue to stay civilized, stay cool.

“That would be great.” Marvin smiled, and Bessie jumped to her feet, grateful for the diversion.

“And Bessie, bring some cheese, would you, and whatever else you can put together… some of those lovely green grapes. Who
else would like a drink?” she asked. Gia wanted lemonade; Debra would have a glass of wine.

It was amazing what interjecting small amenities into the most horrendous of crises could do to put a better face on things,
she reflected. Even wonderful, concerned Dr. Jamieson, who still wouldn’t sit down, whose veins pulsated at his temples as
he paced—even
he
visibly relaxed a bit and asked Bessie for a glass of juice.

Bessie escaped into the kitchen, and Marvin addressed Debra’s question. “What to do? I’m going to have to call Mike Cabello
and tell him, of course, right away,” he said.

“Well, what would the procedure be in a case like this?” Debra asked with a hint of exasperation. “Surely they’ll just dismiss
everything and close the book on it—it was a tragic accident involving a youngster; you read about this kind of thing all
the time.”

“Debra,” Marvin said quietly, “it’s not going to be that simple. They are not going to just accept this scenario at face value,
thank you very much, case closed. They are going to tear the stories apart, second by second, Bessie’s, and Gia’s, too—”

“Oh, Marvin,” Debra wailed, giving Gia a supportive squeeze, “can’t they at least spare
her?”

“No,” Marvin said. “Time for a reality check, Debra. For all they know, you might have cooked this story up to get yourself
off the hook.
They
know that
you
know they can’t throw a ten-year-old in prison. They’ll be all over the kid’s story, and so will the press—count on it.”

“There’ll be more publicity?” she asked with a sinking heart.

“Debra, the
hordes of hell
will be on your doorstep. Starting
tomorrow. Maybe even today, after I tell Mike Cabello. It’ll leak right away, trust me on that—those guys need to close this
case.”

Dr. Jamieson had dropped into a chair. “The best thing would be to get Gia out of here for a while,” he said. “Take her to
the mountains or somewhere—she’s out of school anyway, and
you
could use a change of scenery, too,” he told Debra.

Catching the glint of hope that sprang into Debra’s eyes, Marvin pronounced resolutely, “Nice idea, but they won’t let either
of you go out of town, so don’t even think about it.”

“Well, then, we’ll just have to help Gia through this, won’t we?” Jamieson said, smiling kindly at the girl.

“Gia,” Marvin said, “we want to hear from
you,
now. Tell us everything that happened on the day your daddy got shot. From the beginning, Gia,” he said when the girl hesitated,
looking up at her mother for reassurance.

Bessie had come back into the room with a tray of drinks and snacks, which she set on the coffee table. Once again, Gia was
temporarily spared by the distraction presented by the refreshments, and she jumped up and made a great production of building
herself a sandwich with meat and cheese, spreading the bread carefully with mustard, arranging pickles and olives just so
on her plate. Debra gave her a minute to play with her food before she yanked her back on the spot.

“Well, uhh,” Gia stammered, licking mustard off her fingers, “I went in my room to get my red sweater?” She made it a question,
looking for approval.

“Yes,” Marvin encouraged her. He already knew the opening text; he’d heard it from both Debra and Bessie. But only Gia knew
exactly what had gone on inside that bedroom, and that’s what he had come to hear. He’d told Debra not to press the child
for details until he got there, that handling it would have to be delicate. Everyone in the small group was facing Gia now,
paying her rapt attention.

“And we found my jacket,” Gia went on. “And my boots
with the fur inside? And I showed Daddy Debra’s gun,” she said, lowering her voice, reddening, dropping her head. She used
“Debra” instead of “Mom” sometimes, when she was trying to detach from her. Gia knew that taking that gun out of the drawer
was strictly forbidden, and now that the secret was out, she’d be punished for it.

“Go on,” Marvin said gently. Gia started to cry, her tears splashing onto the plate of food she was holding with both hands
on her lap.

“Then Daddy got shot,” she sobbed, not looking at anyone, her eyes riveted to her soggy sandwich.

Debra couldn’t bring herself to ask the question. Dr. Jamieson did. “Did you shoot your daddy, Gia?” he asked.

“No,” Gia wailed.

“Don’t lie, young lady,” Debra pressed, all too aware of her daughter’s usual tactic when in a tight spot—it was her father’s
tactic as well, she knew.

“I didn’t shoot him,” Gia cried, and the plate slid off her lap onto the floor, spilling its contents onto the Kashan carpet.
Bessie leaped to clean up the mess.

Debra knew that Gia actually could handle a gun—her father had taught her, she’d told Marvin that. And she knew that it would
be natural for her daughter to want to show off the firearm to her dad, just as she knew Gia would have had every intention
of spiriting it back into her nightstand drawer without letting her mother find out. Debra wondered now how many times she’d
had it out, examined it, maybe even played with it—a loaded gun! She’d been a fool to leave it in that drawer, but she’d wanted
it readily accessible in the middle of the night if she ever needed it, and it had never occurred to her that Gia would ever
see it, let alone handle it. And it had a hair trigger! Tony Morano at the gun club had recommended that, for Debra’s protection.
She had been meticulously instructed, and he’d trusted that she was coolheaded enough never to aim the weapon unless she
feared for her life. If she ever
were
in danger, he didn’t want her having to struggle with the trigger and risk being overpowered. Yes, Gia definitely
could
handle that Smith & Wesson.38.

“Well, then,
who
shot him?” Marvin asked, never expecting to hear what came next.

“Zahna,” Gia said. Bessie let out a gasp.

“And who is Zahna?” Debra demanded incredulously.

“Daddy’s girlfriend,” Gia whimpered.

M
axi stood outside the warped, rusted-out gate and waited. She sensed that the woman was observing her from behind the curtain
at the front window. So much for the element of surprise. She’d wanted to catch her off guard; that would have made it harder
for Zahna Cole to say no to a quick interview. Now she would be deciding whether or not to open the door.

There was a nearly imperceptible change in the configuration of light and shadow behind the window, and seconds later, the
front door opened. The woman in the sketches stepped out onto the stoop and down the trampled path, and stood facing Maxi
on the other side of the locked gate.

“Hello,” Maxi offered, smiling. “I’m Maxi Poole from Channel Six News.”

“I know who you are,” Zahna responded in a guttural voice. Her eyes were red, her pupils dilated, her demeanor spacey. Drugs,
Maxi knew immediately.

“Can we talk for just a few minutes?” Maxi began. “About Meg Davis. I understand she was a friend of yours.”

“What do you want to talk about?” Zahna asked. Maxi could feel hostility emanating from this woman. Paranoia was a major side
effect of drug abuse, she knew.

“The people at Sotheby’s told me you were with her at the auction,” Maxi returned. “I’d like to talk to you about what kind
of woman she was, and what she might have done with the cross she purchased that night.”

“If we knew
that,
we’d know who’s doing all these killings, wouldn’t we?” the woman snarled. Then she surprised Maxi with a complete about-face.
“Wanna come in?” she asked sweetly.

Zahna took a key out of her jacket pocket and opened the gate from the inside. “This used to be electric,” she muttered, “but
it doesn’t work anymore.”

She pulled the creaking gate inward a couple of feet and stood aside for Maxi to walk through, then slammed it shut and locked
it again with the key. Maxi was uncomfortable with that, but she figured the woman probably locked it out of habit, for security
reasons.

Zahna ushered her into the cluttered living room, and Maxi was assaulted with the stench of acrid perspiration and rotting
food. Trash littered the floor and tabletops, and rays of sunshine streaming in through soiled lace curtains revealed a thick
coat of dust over every surface.

Pushing some newspapers, a sweatshirt, some socks, and tennis shoes off a tattered canvas-backed director’s chair onto the
floor, Zahna gestured to Maxi to have a seat. Dropping cross-legged on the floor, Zahna leaned back against a faded flowered
couch and looked up at Maxi with a vacant smile.

Inhaling the rancid odors and the dust-laden air, Maxi stifled a wave of nausea. She experienced an ominous sense of dread,
looking down at the drugged-out woman who sat at her feet with a self-satisfied smile on her face. Her instincts told her
to ask a few questions and get out of there fast.

What’s to be scared of? She’s just a junkie,
Maxi thought. The tennis shoes, she flashed, eyeing them on the floor by her chair—
black Reeboks.
But lots of women wore black Reeboks—Maxi owned a pair herself. Maybe it was the fact that she felt trapped,
that she was dependent on this whacked-out woman to unlock the gate and let her out. Whatever was provoking it, Maxi had the
sensation that hell was just beneath the floorboards.